The house buzzed with frantic preparations for the charity ball that evening. Staff hurried through the halls, carrying freshly pressed garments, trays of jewelry, and racks of shoes.
Mirelle sat quietly on the edge of her bed, the large garment bag stretched across it like a strange, mocking gift. Her mother had bought her new clothes for the event—the only time she was ever allowed anything truly expensive.
A new gown, delicate shoes, makeup she wasn't permitted to wear on normal days—all to create the illusion of the perfect daughter for high society's vultures.
Mirelle knew the truth: she was a polished ornament, put on display only when it suited Celeste Vasseur's carefully curated image.
The door burst open. Kaia sauntered in, irritation in every sharp step. She carried two heavy jewelry cases, which she tossed onto the bed with a loud clatter that made Mirelle flinch.
"Wear those," Kaia snapped, crossing her arms tightly.
Mirelle blinked at her, confused.
Kaia sneered, tilting her head with mock pity. "You'll need all the diamonds you can get to distract from that pathetic face."
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and swept out, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and bitterness.
Mirelle stared at the jewelry boxes, a knot forming low in her stomach. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened them. Inside lay absurdly expensive jewelry—necklaces dripping with flawless diamonds, earrings that fractured the light like captured stars. Pieces meant for princesses and heiresses.
Why would they give these to her? Why now?
She dressed carefully, sliding into the silver gown—an icy piece that clung to her like water—and clasped the diamond necklace around her throat. The matching earrings brushed her jaw with every movement, cool and whispering against her skin.
Despite herself, despite the dread curling inside her, she felt… good.
For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe she looked beautiful. That she belonged.
When she descended the staircase, Kaia and Celeste were already waiting. Kaia's arms were crossed tight over her chest, her mouth a sour line.
Celeste's gaze swept over Mirelle—sharp, assessing—and immediately found her lacking.
"Not enough," she said briskly, her voice loud enough to make a nearby maid flinch.
As if remembering something, Celeste turned toward Kaia. "Didn't you say you found the diamond bracelet?"
Mirelle's eyes darted to Kaia's wrist—and there it was. Her bracelet, glinting shamelessly.
"Take it off. Give it back to Mirelle," Celeste ordered, her voice slicing the air.
Kaia's face twisted. "Mother—"
"Now."
Kaia ripped the bracelet off and stormed upstairs, shooting Mirelle a look dripping with venom.
Celeste turned back to her, expression softening into something almost fond.
"You look beautiful," she said. "Exactly like me at your age."
Mirelle lowered her eyes politely. "You're more beautiful, Mother."
But inside, she knew better.
Celeste and Kaia shared the same razor-edged beauty: tall, dark-haired, commanding. Mirelle, with her softer features, pale blonde hair, and piercing light blue eyes, looked like a ghost of her father.
Maybe that's why she had always felt like an outsider. Like a flaw in their perfect design.
Kaia returned, sulking, and jammed a different bracelet onto her wrist.
"Fix your face," Celeste said sharply.
Moments later, the driver appeared. Celeste and Kaia swept toward the main car.
Mirelle followed at a distance, slipping into the second one—separate, as always. A silent passenger in her own family's story.
They arrived at the grand hall, a palace of glittering chandeliers and towering floral displays. Lights blazed, music floated, laughter echoed off marble floors.
Stepping inside, Mirelle was hit by a wall of noise, color, and perfume.
She remembered attending these glittering events when her father was alive—how safe she had felt standing by his side.
After his death, Celeste had coldly told her to "focus on her mental health"—a pretty excuse to banish her from view while Kaia took her place.
Now, standing at the entrance again, it felt like being thrown to the lions.
Even dressed in diamonds and silk, under admiring gazes, Mirelle felt small. Insignificant. Like a child playing dress-up.
Her dress felt too tight. Her jewelry suffocated her.
Celeste spotted some business partners and turned to Mirelle and Kaia with a clipped tone.
"Go socialize."
Kaia leaned in, smiling sweetly. "Try not to embarrass us," she whispered, before gliding toward a handsome man waiting for her.
Left alone, Mirelle froze. The room spun with glittering dresses and murmured conversations. She didn't know what to do.
She wandered aimlessly, weaving between laughing guests, drawn toward the edges of the hall where large, stately paintings hung.
Her eyes caught on one—"Liberty Leading the People" by Eugène Delacroix. Revolution and hope spilled across the canvas, a woman raising a flag high, defiance in her eyes.
Mirelle stood there, transfixed.
"A beautiful madness, isn't it?" a deep, weathered voice said behind her.
She turned and found an old man in a dark tailored suit, silver hair combed neatly back, kindness in his sharp eyes.
"Delacroix captured more than rebellion," he said. "He captured the ache of those who want to be free, even if they don't yet know what freedom truly feels like."
Mirelle blinked, throat tight. It felt like he was speaking directly to her.
The old man smiled and extended his hand. "Victor Braem. I was a close friend of your father's. Your godfather, actually."
A flood of memories rushed through her—sweets hidden in jacket pockets, a kind voice calling her "little bird."
An excited laugh broke from her lips as she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. "Uncle Vic!" she said, her voice bright with sudden, childlike happiness.
Victor chuckled, his arms wrapping around her warmly. "You've grown up so well," he said, voice full of affection. "And you still remember me. That does my old heart good."
"Of course uncle Vic." She said almost with a choked voice.
He pulled back slightly to look at her, smiling. "You look so much like your mother."
Mirelle smiled shyly. "Thank you."
Victor chuckled. "I'm sorry I haven't visited more."
"It's okay," Mirelle murmured.
He patted her hand gently. "Celeste is not a woman easily persuaded."
Victor then gestured toward a table. "Come, sit with me."
They sat, the music and chatter swirling around them.
Victor looked at her thoughtfully, his hands folded neatly on the table. "Your father spoke of you often. He said you had the brightest spirit he'd ever seen in a child."
Mirelle swallowed hard, the sudden tenderness tightening her throat.
"He taught me to dance," she said quietly. "Before anyone else. He used to lift me around the kitchen and call it a grand performance."
Victor laughed, low and fond. "I remember. He used to say you were light as air, destined to soar in ways he never could."
Mirelle smiled, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
"I'm doing ballet again," she offered, her voice steadier.
Victor's eyes lit up. "Good. You must know every part of our world, inside and out, if you're to lead it well one day."
Mirelle smiled, but it was brittle. She knew she would never be given any true piece of it—not with Kaia standing ahead.
As she lowered her gaze, a figure caught her eye.
Rafe.
Standing among the crowd, dark, detached, a glass of champagne untouched in his hand.
She stood up abruptly, her heart kicking against her ribs.
Victor chuckled. "Go on. I've taken enough of your time."
He leaned in, voice low and sincere. "If you ever need anything, come to me."
Mirelle smiled gratefully before slipping away into the glittering chaos, her heart hammering in her chest.